Walking along Logan Boulevard in mid June feels a little like falling in love. Sure, the peonies have come and gone, but the flowering trees are in full bloom, showing off, maybe even shaking a flower or two in your hair if you strut under it at exactly the right moment. Just after dark, on a weeknight, the traffic on the Boulevard slows, and if I’m on the quieter side of the street, it feels like a secret, at least until the next traffic light.

I recently moved right off the Boulevard and am getting used to taking that quick left turn after I leave the building, guiding me down the Boulevard to where the action is, or isn’t.

On every walk I’ve made in the last couple weeks, I’ve discovered something new: a house I hadn’t noticed before; a different cat in a window; a perfectly pink rose bush that surely couldn’t have looked that perfect yesterday.

Sometimes I’ve been with a friend, but usually I am alone, listening to music, which probably amplifies this ridiculous romanticism.

I’m having an affair with Logan Boulevard. Tell no one. Tell everyone.

It feels like this, except I prefer my view, I never dramatically break into song, and — unfortunately —Jazmine Sullivan never shows up. So I guess it’s nothing like this at all, but fuck! I love this song, they *are* walking — and I listened to this twice while walking yesterday.